Page 148

Blair studies the bear. “I formally withdraw my earlier pronouncement that this was a possibly diseased woodland cryptid.”

“Thank you,” Shannon says.

“That wasn’t an apology.”

Laura studies the bear over the rim of her cup. “He’s recognizable, structurally sound, and unlikely to generate an incident report. I’d say he’s successfully completed his probationary period.”

“That’s your professional assessment?”

“I work in Human Resources. My standards are evidence-based.”

“Your standards include wine at four in the afternoon,” Blair says.

Laura takes another drink. “Employee morale is also evidence-based.”

Then Locke comes up beside me and rests one hand at the small of my back. The conversation trails off for a beat. His hand stays there, easy and familiar, and nobody misses what that means.

“I just want it noted that if tiny saplings start appearing, I’m not babysitting.”

“Shannon,” I scold.

Janet lifts her cup. “For the record, I’m not babysitting either. I already have one grown woman whose appointments, groceries, and meals require a full-time logistics department.”

Laura takes a drink. “I object to the childcare, not the underlying assumption.”

I stare at her.

“I’m a widow, Rachel. I’m not dead. I remember what wanting to climb a man like a tree feels like.”

For one remarkable second, nobody says anything. Laura could have announced she’d joined a motorcycle gang and gotten roughly the same reaction.

Then Blair slowly turns toward her. “That is considerably more information than you usually volunteer.”

Beside me, Locke leans closer. “What does she mean by saplings?”

“No.”

His brow furrows. “No?”

“Not now.”

He thinks about that, then, “Ahhh.”

I turn toward him. “And what does that mean?”

“I think I understand.”

“That concerns me more.”

His hand shifts slightly at my back, and I feel his laugh through the contact before I hear it. We’re allowed to stand here together without anyone requiring an explanation, a decision, or a plan.

Tom checks the braces under the platform. Janet collects the loose lengths of willow we trimmed away during setup and stacks them neatly beside the trailer because even debris has standards when Janet is involved. Blair crouches to inspect one of the braces Tom just tightened. Shannon stands in the middle of the square admiring the bear as if she personally wove every inch of it.

Locke stays beside me. His hand is still at my back, easy and warm through my shirt. Three days ago, that same hand was on bare skin, and my body remembers before I can stop it. I glance at him and find him watching me. There’s absolutely no innocence in the look he gives me. Apparently I’m not the only one remembering what happened on that porch.

I take a drink of wine and look very deliberately at the bear. Locke’s fingers move once against my back, which does nothing to help.

The square is beginning to look like a festival now. Booth frames line the walkways, still waiting for banners and merchandise. Someone has strung lights between the lampposts. A stack of hay bales sits beside the fountain, and farther down Main Street, a man I recognize from the hardware store is arguing with a folding table.